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Jet of the Hour
Ruins of Autobot Headquarters The broad, smooth-paved road to Autobot Headquarters leads ahead to massive gates, marked with the Autobot symbol... or it did once. Now the road ends at the mangled gates, and beyond it is rubble. The once-proud base was battered first from the outside, leaving shattered defenses and bodies, but at least the bodies are only the broken remnants of the statues of Autobot heroes, not the fallen. However, the explosives set off inside are what truly reduced the base to the widely-scattered pile of debris it is now, a graveyard of lost hopes and dreams. Or perhaps... a new beginning. Contents: Reinforced YF-15 Star Eagle Galvatron Obvious exits: Fly leads to Sky above Ruins of AHQ. South leads to Outside Memorial Spaceport. F-35B Lightning II flies over the ruins of AHQ. She isn't mincing. She does not mince. The F-35 is flying rather carefully, however. This is really near Iahex, and it has her worried. Certainly, she can outrun most Autobots, but she'd rather not have to. Looking with her scouting sensors, she tries to make sure that the area is free of bugs and listening sensors. Meanwhile, another Decepticon who does not mince (at least not in public), stands amidst the wreckage of the old Autobase. Ramjet swings his foot forward, kicking a chunk of broken hero-statue across an expanse of bare-swept ground. His arm lifts at an angle, smoothly aligning the barrel of his mounted rifle-cannon at the statue chunk. Fingers grip and laser-mag shell discharges its contents through the length of the weapon. Take that, Emirate Xaaron! There would be Wreckers hiding in Ramjet's cone polish drawer by now if Emirate Xaaron was on the job. The circling F-35 is finally satisfied by the lack of Autobot surveillance equipment, and she transforms and lands somewhere behind Ramjet. She salutes and greets, "Ramjet, sir! Having a pleasant cycle?" F-35, Marine Corps variant, transforms into robot form. Catechism's feet unfold, her arms unfold out of her body, her nosecone rotates through her body and ends up on her shoulders to expose her face, and her wings rotate into position. "Hnnh, hnnh, hnnnnnh," comes the dark chuckle from near the two jets' position. A pile of rubble is shot away -- exposing Galvatron, seated in what appears to be the console chair of a communications dome, long since antiquated even beyond its scorching and unlit panels. "Poetic, isn't it? I felt /inspired/." The tyrant grins, a rare moment of smiling candor. "I must say, I find this... scar on the planet's surface... /motivating/, in quite a few exciting ways. Hnnh hnnh hnnh." "Of course," Ramjet replies as he turns with a heavy lead of his right shoulder, the intake mounting it serving a hefty hindrance to peripheral targeting. He is about to say something when Galvatron shoots away his own chunk of debris and soliloquies all over the place. Messy. "Uh. Yes, Great One," Ramjet agrees on command. Catechism is starting to get the impression that chairs are important. Ramjet makes a big deal out of them, and Galvatron manages to find a kickin' chair even in the middle of rubble. She turns, kicking away, a few pices of shrapnel, and she bows formally. When she rises again to her full height, she replies, "Indeed. It is the perfect graphic demonstration of our goals, sir." Galvatron reclines with a flex of his shoulder servos -- the chair nearly breaks. "Catechism. The jet of the hour," he says, although it's hard to tell if the title is mirthful, sardonic, or both -- even if he's jesting, his rasp remains poisonous. "I understand you have plans just along these lines, yes. So. Tell me about them. Brief me. Ramjet, I summoned you so that I could tell you to your face that /her/ performance reflects /yours/. So you'd both better make it good." Ramjet bobs his cone at Galvatron in a nod. He then looks to Catechism and awaits her briefing. 'And we're going to flatten everything with TRYPTICON!' will make for a great end-capper line after her briefing. Catechism opens her hand, and there is a holo-projector there on her palm. A press of a button, and map of Cybertron hovers above her hand. She gestures as she speaks, "I went on a scouting run and looked at some of our tunnels to try to determine the best route of attack. Tunneling in via Agorahex, for example, is unfeasible due to both Autobot sensors there and oppressive levels of radiation. The tunnels under Polyehex are a pain but not useful. Atacking from NCH West is too far a distance and lacks the value of surprise." "However, attacking directly from Retoris has its own problems. The Tunnels of Retoris is... a tunnel. It would be all too easy for the Autobots to collapse it on our heads and pick us off at their leisure. Also, the area has their sensors." "Thus, we do strike at Retoris, just as they would expect. We send a big enough force to make it seem real. Included in this force should be stealth experts, such as Geist and Ravage, and demolition experts. An infiltrator should slip in, past the Iahex Plain, and attempt to disable the spaceport defenses." "As mentioned by Commander Ramjet, this is where Trypticon comes in. Trypticon is space-capable, but a lot of people don't think of that. The main attack force loads up in Trypticon, hops into orbit, and come crashing down on the Iahex spaceport once the defenses are down. At the same time, the crew in the tunnels blow the tunnels, trapping the Autobot defenders outside, unable to help those inside their city. Trypticon and those he carried rampage inside the defender-light Autobot city, hopefully ruining it. Then, they load up and depart, when the attack is complete. It will leave Autobots stranded on the outside, with no home to retreat to, and it will make repairs to the city difficult." Catechism crushes her holo-projector, causing the image to flicker out, and she looks from Ramjet to Galvaton, her gaze steady. She inquires, "Sirs?" Ramjet looks hopeful. His face lights up as he is about to mention Trypticon -- but wait! Catechism got to it first! "....!" He gnashes his teeth and clenches his fist. His moment is ruined. Oh calamity. Ramjet coughs. "That is the idea, Lord Galvatron." Galvatron strokes his silver chin as Catechism speaks, red optics fixing on the holograms as his typical wry smile turns from an expression of general contempt into one savoring every last possibility. When Catechism finishes and Ramjet punctuates, he smiles broadly. "Deceiving the Autobots into thinking they have the fight made... and then striking them from the stars in a war machine the likes of which not even Omega Supreme could counter. You'll go far, Catechism... I dare say Ramjet should watch his back." Galvatron gives Ramjet a smug look before turning his attention back to Catechism. "We should begin work on rigging the tunnel as soon as possible. Ideally we can use it to not only trap those Autobot worms, but feed a firestorm directly into Iahex's belly." Catechism's face breaks into a slow, ugly smile, as if it was a gash cut into the metal of her face. If she covets Ramjet's post, she gives no tells. Instead, she stays focused on the task at hand, replying, "Thank you, sir. You wish that the Tunnel of Retoris be rigged before-hand? Getting it past the sensors there will be tricky. It has been suggested that we should suborn the sensors themselves - have them play a dummy feed to the Autobots. I have spoken to DCI, but, ah... they need to get back to me." So she spoke to Americon. It was an honest mistake! "But you will shall be done, one way or the other. Also, Trypticon will require more fuel to be at his fighting prime. I have spoken with Shockwave, Fusillade, and Redshift on the fuel matter, and if I do not see results soon, I will see to it personally, sir." She's motivated. Catechism was given this post, and thus, Iahex must die. Ramjet suppresses an urge to make a face. He reports nonetheless, "Trypticon also requires several repairs. He has been.. most disagreeable.. in engaging his self-repair protocols. I have seen to addressing this issue, but he will need additional fixes to his locomotion gyros." "So I'll tell Scrapper or -- that little /emissary/, if he's even working yet -- to /fix it/," Galvatron snaps at Ramjet, as if he can't be bothered with such middling details when he's too busy envisioning mushroom clouds over Iahex. "And Intelligence will handle the sensors or I will handle them. I don't want this to be a victory. Anyone can win a battle, anyone can stage a strike." Galvatron's grin turns darker, and his eyes flash hotter. "I want this to be a massacre." Catechism looks sidelong at Ramjet. She really needs to have a Talk with him, and there will be booze involved, to ensure that he does, indeed, Talk. Between that weird trip to Ajax Minor to grab a lasercore for him and his comment about time during her match with Sunder and now his odd interest in Trypticon, he is obviously Up To Something, and Catechism aims to find out what. She steeples her fingers, fairly glowing, and she replies, her voice low, "Oh, good, sir. I do so love massacres." "With Trypticon," Ramjet says with a gruesome grin (ho ho), "...total obliteration of the enemy is assured. We will not fail you, Great One." Galvatron continues, as if no one else had spoken. "I want the Autobots to witness what we have wrought -- what I will /do/ to them -- and laugh in their horror-stricken faces as they realize there was no possible way they could have seen this coming -- that there is no escape from the Decepticon war machine -- that the trap has already sprung, and they were none the wiser." Galvatron settles in his chair, content in his hatred. "Speaking of Trypticon... is his... diplomat online?" Ramjet nods once more. "He is, Emperor. I have briefed him on the need to make Trypticon more.. agreeable. The battlestation has apparently concerned himself with notions of being left alone for the rest of his warranty. I have seen to it that he does not forget that he is your weapon and will do as you command." Catechism again looks at Ramjet sidelong, and she inquires, "Emissary? Diplomat? I am afraid that I have not been briefed on that matter." What, did they drop Trypticon in the ocean too many times? Ramjet folds his arms over his chest and hmpfs. "I told you. Trypticon is disagreeable. It took a Decepticon who can speak his language and deal with those ridiculous dinosaur electrons he leaves all over the fracking place. Hnh. Blasted creature just sheds and sheds and sheds while it sits around. Almost like Snapdragon." "Why waste time trying to figure out how to reason with a moronic dinosaur," Galvatron says to Catechism, "when we could simply get someone who already knows how to do it for us?" Catechism rubs the area of her face next to her optic, and she mutters, "Trypticon used to speak normal Decepticon... we *must* have dropped him in the ocean too many times." She looks back up, "And where did we find this dinosaur diplomat guy? ...and say, why can't we just use Snapdragon?" Ramjet looks to the side. Too many questions! Veil of secrecy failing! "Catechism, do not question the will of Galvatron." "Because Snapdragon is an idiot," is Galvatron's curt response. Catechism squints over at Ramjet and says slowly, "I am not questioning the will of Galvatron, Commander. I am questioning *you*. You would not claim to speak for Galvatron, would you?" Galvatron is sitting right there. Claiming to speak for him could be... unwise. "Where did you get this diplomat, Ramjet? Why now and not earlier, if he will be so useful?" "Oh, you are." Ramjet feigns realizing this. "I thought you were questioning our use not to involve Snapdragon. Uh..." Think think think. What can he do to pull a suitable answer out. Oh right. "It was an unused design I pulled from a database on Charr, made shortly after we claimed Trypticon from the Quintessons. Back when we cared about researching Quintesson technology," and back when we had OCs who had bizarre links to Quintessons. Galvatron leans back, watching Catechism interrogate her commander. How he does love seeing chaos bloom. Catechism asks innocently, almost sweetly, "So we had this design, just sitting around the whole time, and no one ever thought to, oh, maybe put it into use? Wow. I am amazed, Commander, at the implied incompetence of our Engineering department, there. That a warrior and leader of men, such as you, sir, could do what all our engineers, medics, and scientists could not. I am surprised that you have not filed a formal complaint over MSE's inadequacy." Ramjet rolls his shoulders in an easy shrug. "We have plenty of designs that aren't rolled out into use." He looks to Galvatron, "Remember that design we had for a combiner team with chestplates that could either transform into rifles or turbo-animal partners?" Ramjet looks back to Catechism, totally blase. "No one could agree on a name for it. One of the designers kept bandying around 'Liokaiser' for the Super Warrior mode, but it made no sense." "Hh. Considering how many team members of that project I had executed over that debacle," Galvatron notes gravely, "I am not sure how much you wish to bring it into any kind of in-depth conversation." Catechism was, uh, kind of German when she was human (long story, but she was out to Kill The Kaiser), and so she exclaims, "Liokaiser? Straxus's axe, Ramjet, we could have had our own Lion King!" Then, she shakes her head and nnngs. "You're trying to change the subject, Commander! I'm not talking about bad ideas. I'm talking about good ideas. If this was a good idea, why did it take Ramjet, king of the skies, to slog through the design files and find it? Don't we have Constructicons for this sort of thing?" "Uh. Because I am the AIR COMMANDER, Catechism." Ramjet points out as to why it took him to figure it out. "Excellent ideas flock to my cranial circuitry! Much like promoting YOU was." He then looks smug. Oh how smug. "It never hurts to withhold something until you need it as a chip later," Galvatron says, not looking at either contestant -- simply wanting to throw another fragmentation grenade into the debate. Catechism turns off her optics for a moment, and then she turns them back on. She vows, "Air Commander? We need to talk. At a time when were are not in the middle of a bunch of ruins." "Very well," Ramjet sounds amiable to this. "Pencil yourself in at an appropriate time. My galactic schedule is attached to my Imperial e-mail account." Catechism inquires slyly, "You don't use Head Mail, do you, Ramjet?" Ramjet snorts, "Of course not." He couldn't fit it into his cone. Galvatron grunts, sitting back in his chair. Catechism looks to Galvatron, and she inquires, "Is there anything else, sir?" Galvatron vanishes out of reality. Galvatron has left. Ramjet vanishes out of reality. Ramjet has left.